kept. A moment still Wahb stood in doubt. His lifelong guide was silent
now, had given up his post. But another sense he felt within. The Angel
of the Wild Things was standing there, beckoning, in the little vale.
Wahb did not understand. He had no eyes to see the tear in the Angel's
eyes, nor the pitying smile that was surely on his lips. He could not
even see the Angel. But he _felt_ him beckoning, beckoning. A rush of
his ancient courage surged in the Grizzly's rugged breast. He turned
aside into the little gulch. The deadly vapors entered in, filled his
huge chest and tingled in his vast, heroic limbs as he calmly lay down
on the rocky, herbless floor and as gently went to sleep, as he did that
day in his Mother's arms by the Graybull, long ago.

[Illustration]